Legiones Invicta
by Seth X. C. Solmes
Summary: It is the year 2326, thirty nine years after the events in the Commonwealth. Paladin Costain is a weary man. Racked by the horrors and failures of his past, he has dedicated his life to the cause of a Brotherhood he barely recognizes anymore. He hopes that the strength of the steel on his back and the courage in his soul will crush any doubts he has in his ever changing world.
1. Legiones Invicta

A little note about this. This story takes place some thirty-nine years after the events of Fallout 4, using the Brotherhood ending as cannon. At this time the Brotherhood is very different to the one Arthur Maxson lead in the Commonwealth. They have gone back to a more religious background, as well as have an even greater stress on honor and duty. Now Arthur is seen as a messianic or even godlike figure who is only eclipsed by his ancestor, Roger Maxson, the founder of Brotherhood. They refer to Arthur as the Angle, or the martyr. The Brotherhood has also grown and become much more organized than they were before. There are so many brothers and sisters now that they have formed whole armies, or legions, during their war to retake New York City and other places in the wasteland. They have also enlisted the occasional help of the many militia forces that inhabit the wastes-the Minutemen included-whom they refer to as either militiamen or more formally, the Legiones Ferrum. Latin is used as a sacred language among their numbers, mostly for prayers, chants or blessings. There is quite a deal of Latin in this but I will give the translations below.

Enjoy

 **Legiones Invicta**

 _Quis contra eius voluntatem?*_

The paladin was a bright, shining star in the dimness of the twilight darkened world. His armor, emblazoned with the great bell of the Fourth Legion, was war-torn and weathered from long years of service. The servos in his ankle-bracers creaked as he walked and the arm joints were stiff without a goodly coating of oil; but it still did it's holy purpose. Dust swirled all around him. The last straggling remnants of the Old World were sucked into his oxidizer, filtered out and made into nothing. The ruins were a great jumble of broken rubble and this black ash. Each step he took rocked the floor to it's foundation. Broken furniture, walls caved in, letting the acrid, stale air from the cold wasteland outside. He was glad for the filter in his helm so that he didn't have to smell the horrors of this place.

The place used to be an office building, one of nearly thousands scattered across the island, this one had long ago fallen and crashed into it's neighbor, setting off a domino effect that lasted for well over a month. Now this area of the city was a broken heap of collapsed structures and broken stonework. Nothing but death and broken, crumbling bones. A hulk of it's former glory.

Where once men and woman made their meager living doing whatever it was they did in the Old World, now there was only death and the sink of abomination. He could plainly see them in his sensorium; shuffling, writhing movement in the next corridor, stale breath wheezing through rotten lungs.

"Ghouls." the word was a curse on his tongue.

Over the long years of glorious combat with the Legions he had fought hoards of Super Mutants, Radscorpions, raider filth so corrupted they were barely human; but out of all those horrors of the wastes, he had a deep hatred of the mindless flesh eaters. When he was just a neophyte he had cleared nest after nest of the damn things, often taking the assignments out of hand and for no reward. The blood and stink of battle was all he needed. That, and knowing that more of the filth was gone from the world with each strike of his blade and fire from his laser rifle.

A warning blip appeared on his HUD, night was falling.

 _Good,_ he thought. He had waited for this, meditating as long as it would take. He knew the creatures well, knew they feared the light of the sun, but when night came, so did they. He took his steps slowly, measuring out the weight of his armor. He was still unsure if the floor would hold up, but he advanced anyway. When he came upon the opening to the corridor where last his sensors had picked up movement, he readied himself. Waited.

Minutes past like hours and ever still the light grew darker and darker outside. He could see them, knew they were aware of him. _They are waiting, just as I am._ He gave them one for cleverness. The last strike team that had come were a green squad barely out of the bunker. They'd all been slaughtered or sent back maimed before Captain Theodan saw reason and sent him. He was sure that some of the monsters, the older ones, perhaps, actually learned. If only a little. He'd seen enough of them to know that these weren't going to be simple demons rushing into death. They were waiting, yes. But for what?

As the last light of the sun fell out of few and shadows took the ancient city, he readied his rifle. The movement was the same. The air was the same. His heart beat a steady rhythm in his chest. He focused on it. Calmed his mind. He gave a quick prayer to St Arthur the blessed. The glorious martyr had been dead thirty years now and still he remembered his face. Worn, hard and strong. A man of great conviction and even greater might. He hoped the Angle of Steel would look fondly on him this day. Though he knew He would not.

All at once they came.

Bursting through the opening in surprising speed. They fell upon one another, clawing out their way towards the strange metal giant. He let out a fury of laser fire, renting ancient flesh, burning through the old walls far behind them. Fire erupted on their withered skins. They ran, shouting guttural screams and lighting their alleys aflame even as they tried to get to safety.

He screamed his own chorus as even still they rushed on. The fire caught the walls, raced up to the ceiling. The ghouls cared nothing for the conflagration. They charged as fast as they could, demons fighting against every sense any man might have.

The paladin was not amused. Taking his reaverblade he charged in with a battle cry. Let the blood of a thousand dead things cover his holy armor in his rage.

Viscera flew everywhere with each slash he made. It was like cutting through mud. Dead sinew cut as swiftly as muscle and bone. These were weak, fleshy things. Strong enough to walk and feed and spread their ilk through all corners of the burned earth but nothing to a paladin. Magnificent red rage filled his veins, suffused his very being in a glorious exaltation of battle. For a brief moment in the carnage he thought he saw the face of the Angle in the gore. He brushed that off as an illusion of the battlemind.

He severed the head of the last of them, it fell with a dull _thud_ to the red painted floor. The head rolled for a moment, it' muscles still twitching.

He stood in a sea of gore. The fire still burned all round him. He could feel none of the heat. His armor scratched, the paint had been covered in a thick coating of blood and viscera. He was fine. Their claws and jaws were nothing to steel. _Praise be,_ he folded the reaverblade, put it back at his waist. Discharging a fusion cell, he checked his rifle for any damage. He found none. "Praise steel." he said at last. His sensorium showed no more movement anywhere in the ruins. The labyrinth of demons seemed to have been exhausted. At least for now.

"Command, this is Paladin Costain. Come in." he said over his communicator.

" _We copy you, Paladin. Angulus enim sanguis viresque ferri."**_ came the distorted response. _"Report."_

"Abominations have been purged. South fell clear of the scourge."

" _Benedicite sancti et omnem domum patris sui.*** Squad Rhys reports the same. Captain Theodan has commanded us to send a lancer unit to your location for extraction. Over."_

A new location blip appeared on his HUD, showing the extraction point in bright blue. "Copy, command."

" _Fortitudo ferrum, et ex Maxson."****_

" _Et voluntatem est praecipere._ "***** he answered.

" _Amen."_

He made his way out, cursing at the cinch in his ankle servos.

The MK-ZX7 vertibird was a beast of a thing. Five times larger than the standard birds, it had a cabin that could fit at least twenty brothers as well as a handful of militiamen. Now though, Paladin Costain was alone in the hold. He held his old helmet cradled in his hands. His head resting wearily on his chest.

He sighed heavily.

All the hot blood in his body had seemed to rush out of him the moment he stepped onto the great flyer, so that now he felt a complete wreck. His armor, which usually felt like little more than a feather on his shoulders, now weighed a thousand tons.

He was not a young man anymore, not as strong as he could have been. Each quest sapped the energy out of him in streams once it was over. His withered, angular face, now streaked with sweat felt worn and tired—more so then ever it had before. His bones felt brittle and his stomach heaved as the lancer made a tight turn to avoid a skyscraper. It would do him good to be home. He tried to remember when last he had been out of his armor. He lost count at three months. He knew his skinsuit would be foul as bile by now. He might have to burn it for all he knew.

The war for New York had taken so much of him. He had come here a green knight ready to serve the brotherhood, and ended up a hard old paladin who was quickly losing the way of things. He had known High Elder Maxson. Arthur, he made everyone call him. The Great Reformer, he was called in his day. The Saint, he was called now. Back then the Elder had been a man of great worth. A man that had, with the help of Sentinel Gaunt, it must not be forgotten, had destroyed the Institute itself. Saving certain scientists such as Dr Lee, the now venerated Dr Virgil and scores of other, useful men and women. They had designed and built the mates of the noble _Prydwen_ ; the _Hercules_ , the _Nauda_ and the _Camelot._ Still, with all those accomplishments, the great Elder had kept himself humble, honorable.

He remembered the first time he saw Arthur. It was aboard the new flagship, _Camelot;_ he had called for Costain himself. He met him in the command deck, standing before the observation window, his hands clasped behind him, watching the sunrise over the desiccated corpse of New York City.

"Knight," he'd said. Even then his voice sounded oddly powerful. _The Voice of Maxson._ Some called it. Said it was a trait of that noble line.

"Elder Maxson," I said my voice faltering even as I rose from my kneel.

"I have brought you here today because Sentinel Gaunt sees potential in you, soldier. In his exact words you were—" he took up a piece of paper, "'Fairly good.' Very high praise for that bitter bastard, wouldn't you say."

"I would never disrespect the Sentinel like that, sir."

He laughed. "Nor I if I were in his presence. That doesn't matter. What I needed to talk to you about, soldier, was this," He bid him closer, pointed out the window. "Do you see it?"

He strained his eyes to see what it was. Through the mist and fog of the morning he could just make out the tip of some great skyscraper rising in the distance. Though, the longer he stared, the more he realized that it wasn't a skyscraper, but a hand, a hand holding a torch.

"What in the name of..."

"Yes, soldier. That is the colossus that the natives talk about. Though it had a much different name in it's day; Lady Liberty." he leaned on the railing lining the window. Costain could see a fire growing in the whites of his elder's eyes. "We need it"

The vertibird accelerated, flew into a climb.

"Fucking hell!" Costain shouted as they rode the face of a building for a long moment. The lancer, he could see, was unfazed. Then again, he had a seat belt. The paladin had to hold onto whatever he could for purchase. When they leveled out a voice broke on the comm system,"Still there, Paladin?"

"Just nearly," he shouted back. "Warn me next time." It was all he could do not to vomit where he sat.

"We're almost home, sir."

"Praise Maxson."

He shook his head. His overly long, once black hair hung in clumps near his shoulders. His scarred face was covered in grease, dirt, congealed sweat and bits of ash that had gotten through his filters. _I must look quite the waster,_ he thought with a chuckle. It had been years since he thought of himself as a simple survivor. He glanced over at the window, saw the city in stark silhouette down below. In the dimness he could just make out the sudden flashes of gunfire in the narrow city streets. An explosion boomed out of a building and even this high up he though he could hear the battle cry of his brothers. _Another victory._

Ever since that day aboard the _Camelot_ Costain's life had been nothing but battle, loss, and hard won victory. The Annals had recorded twenty good brothers and sisters had died during the battle for Liberty Island. He had lead that force. Elder Maxson had made sure of that. He trusted him...

It was a simple assignment. The island was not large, nor was there a much of force there—or so the intelligence had suggested—just a small group of lightly armored raiders that had made Fort Wood their home. He was given a battalion of soldiers, just in case, as well as a light gunship equipped with miniguns and a small auxiliary of militiamen at the ready. They landed calmly enough. Weren't greeted with fire as they came into sight, always a good sign. He ordered his men to divide into two teams, to surround the statue platform as best they could. They were approaching the entrance when all hell broke loose.

Team One was advancing when a volley of grenades rained down on them. Costain had just enough time scatter before a bundle burst at his feet, his men weren't so lucky. Knights Lambert, Ross, Engle and Burner had all been hit hard, shrapnel burst through their power armor like it was nothing. The others had survived the volley, tried to strike their own. Suddenly sniper fire poured out from the colossus' torch, killing six members of Team Two in an instant. The rest of the team flew into a rage. Knight Voss launched a mini-nuke, his squad mates let out a stream of laser fire. The nuke hit the balcony of the torch, shattering it into a thousand pieces that fell down on most of Team One, crushing them all. The paladin lost control of his men, lost control of the battle; he was frantically calling in support but the gunship had veered off to escape the nuclear blast and was out of range. Blindly he rushed in, rifle blazing, hoping to god that he lived. He made it into the fortress, and then minigun fire raged outside, and the militiamen dropped down in force to take out what was left. In the end he was sitting at the ruined top of ancient statue, his helmet on the floor, his head in his hands.

" _Captain Costain, the Camelot approaches."_ someone told him over the comm, he didn't notice. They moored the airship and Arthur came to find his captain. He found him where he sat, unwashed, his armor still bloody and burned. He held his head in one hand, the holotags of the fallen in the other, and when the great elder came to him, he seemed to be weeping.

"Pull yourself together, soldier." the strange voice of the Elder was like thunder in his ear, commanding, demanding.

With a will, he rose, saluted his elder. "Elder Maxon, Liberty Island is ours." he reported, his voice stark, distant.

Arthur clapped his hands on his pauldrons. Hugged him. Costain was shocked. "You did well, knight. We will never forget the sacrifice of those brave soldiers. The Brotherhood never forgets" he gently took the holotags from him, gave them to a waiting scribe, who took them with a solemn pride. "Know, however, that what you did was just. Never forget that, brother."

"The Brotherhood never forgets." Costain said, almost a prayer.

He was never truly sure of that.

They finally made their way out of the ruined city, came upon the dark waters of the Hudson. A sea of bile and waste from the Old World turned harsh and irradiated, if it wasn't before. Costain gave it no more than a fleeting glance, he was searching for the lights. The lancer made a graceful turn, allowing the paladin to see the great fortress. "Warms my heart every time I see it," he said over the comm.

He wished he could say the same.

Liberty Island shone in the darkness like second sun. all over the isle and up the length of the old statue, lights were hung and blazing bright. All about it the water was alight, and all about it could be seen virtibirds flocking to it like so many swallows returning home. There were brothers and sisters down there, he knew, doing their drills, practicing their maneuvers, firing round after round on targets and dueling one another—but to him it all seemed a peaceful place then. Vaguely, as if by whisper, he could hear the chanting rising ever higher as they approached. It started low and quiet, the hushed chorus of a thousand heavenly voices rising in gentle ascension. He focused on that beautiful sound, and soon the horrors and failures of the past melted away. The darkness of night fell before him and he drifted, long and weary, into the arms of their sanctified canticle.

When they landed and he was helped out of the flyer by a hooded scribe, the sound had enveloped his entire being. All around him were gathered the men and women of the Brotherhood. Hundreds of them, crowded shoulder to shoulder, listening to the chant and greeting an old paladin. One of them took his hand, ushered him to the fort. When he fell out of his armor, and his squire Barnabas caught him, laid him down to rest his muscles, he felt as though sleep was creeping upon him; a wonderful, holy kind of sleep that he hadn't felt in so many long months. He opened his eyes, looked up and saw the face of the Angle staring down at him. His hard, scarred face and intense eyes were blazing and clear in their purpose. He was arrayed in his power armor, He held a laser rifle in his hands. He was waiting. He was watching this man whom He had made captain. Whom He had tasked to take this place that was now a holy sight in His name.

"What does he wait for?" he said weakly.

 _The Brotherhood never forgets._ Came his answer, clear and beautiful in his mind.

"I'm going mad." he told himself as the chant rose to a crescendo. The angle—Arthur—had been disappointed with his performance. He always knew it. He held the guilt of all those lives and now many more on his old shoulders. It was all so much to bear.

He found himself singing along with the canticle here and there. "Benedictus Dominus angelo, qui vitam ut vivas." he said trying to match the rhythm. "Benedictus Maxson, quem ostendit viam ferro." _blessed be Maxson, whom showed us the way of Steel._ "Beatus homo, qui bellum concupiscit." _blessed be man, who lusts for war._ "Benedictus fraternitatem custos omnium." _blessed be the Brotherhood, who protects all men._ And finally, "Benedictus invictis legionibus." _blessed be the Invincible Legions._

He slept in a strange mire of blood, sweat, shame and guilt.

Translations:

*who would stand against His will?

**Blood for the Angle, strength of Steel

***Bless the saint and all his fathers

****Strength of Steel, and of Maxson

*****His will is my command.


	2. Death's Watchman

**Death's Watchman**

 _Timebunt nobis in toto corde suo._

The shadow of the airship was a gleaming beacon of hope to some, a terror to others. She rode the wind slowly, with a grace unbecoming of her colossal size. At either side of her, light virtibirds launched and went flying to survey the drop sight, they looked like bees in comparison. In the streets, groups of scavengers scattered to the protection of nearby ruins and the smaller bands of raiders scurried back into their holes. High above, on the command deck, Lancer Captain Ryl watched as his bride made her way to the mooring sight, a retinue of armored brothers and sisters awaiting his command.

He was a tall man, thin of figure and set in his ways. He held his hands behind him, back straight, red hair freshly shaved, angular face immaculately shorn and clean. His uniform was gleaming, every button a shining star on his character, his discipline.

"Ten degrees starboard." he ordered.

"Aye aye, captain."

His bride listed closer to the designated drop sight.

" _Captain Ryl,_ " a voice broke on the commlink.

"Report, lancer."

" _Drop sight clear of hostile forces and abominations. Praise Maxson._ "

"Commence one more sweep of the south ruins and stay clear of the mission area, lancer. Copy?"

" _Copy, Captain._ "

He watched the scout ships fly off and rise towards the destination. Smiled at the sight of them. Flipping on the intercom, he announced, "We're nearing our destination, Sentinel Gaunt, sir. See that your men are ready for drop."

There came no response, just as he had expected.

Annoyed, he flipped off the comm, ordered a shipmate about and listened to another scout report.

"The Sentinel can be a little trying, brother lancer." someone said.

Ryl turned on his heels, saw the withered face of Paladin Costain and his young Squire Barnabas. The pair made a stark company: Costain, a greybeard old paladin, battle scarred and skin dried from long hours in power armor; Barnabas, a green boy with a shaved pate and soft, almost weak face and build. One was weary, the other eager. Ryl didn't think that one would go anywhere in the Legions. _Perhaps he could be a good militiaman?_ He thought.

"I have no quarrel with the honored sentinel." Ryl said. He saluted the paladin. "May I ask why you've come, Paladin Costain?"

"Here to watch the drop." he said as he walked to one of the windows. His squire wandered, wide eyed, among the command stations.

"Please, do not touch, young squire." Ryl cautioned. "This is sensitive equipment."

"Of course, Lancer Captain." the boy said. He followed his master, stood on his toes to peer out the window. The paladin was arrayed in his dress uniform, a black dress robe with his tight skinsuit underneath. The paladins never took those things off, Ryl had observed. _Part of their training, no doubt._ His squire wore his uniform, jacket, backpack and all, with a pride often seen from the youth. Aboard _Nuada_ there must be thirty of the little bastards, running around, shouting and distracting the crew. Ryl did not hate the young people—that would be absurd—he just couldn't stand to be around them; have their grubby little hands over his dear _Nuada._

"The sentinel is a good man," the paladin said, as if to himself.

"Aye, sir. I see no fault in his bearing."

"And his character? Do you see fault in that?"

Ryl thought for a long moment, considering what he'd say. The sentinel, though being the right hand of Elder Hartwood, was a strange man. A quiet man, a massive man who spent all his free time training his recruits or himself back on Liberty Island. And all his working hours were spent...well. Some things aren't worth mentioning. His unit were even stranger; the best of the best from all over the wastes. He made a point of recruiting from only the harshest of environments: the Pit, inner D.C., the edge of the Glowing Sea and Far Harbour, to only name a few. From there he'd beat them, ware down their pride and their hearts and their grit, build up their strength and determination and hatred for the enemy. Some said he used chems to augment their capabilities, others that he had a pack of deathclaws he makes his recruits fight to the death with only a knife and the will of Maxson. He knew no one that trusted them, or their leader. That seemed the right thing to do.

"Well," he said. "Some search for the Lost Son, others hunger for the way of Steel, he does his duty. What more could you ask of a brother?"

"Compassion, perhaps." Costain said after a fashion.

That surprised him. "Compassion, sir?"

"Aye, compassion. If not for the civilians then for his own brothers and sisters—his family. He has none though. He and his team slaughtered whole settlements during the First March with no regard to the lives of those around them. They purged town after town and the elder said nothing, _says_ nothing about it." he stopped for a minute, considering. "He's empty, you know? I've talked with him before, no more than a few sentences; his voice is hard and cold. The voice of a wraith, not a man. I pity him."

 _Pity the sentinel?_ That was a strange idea. Fear him, yes. Distrust him, of course. _Pity_ him? "Why would you pity him?" Ryl asked. Costain gave no answer.

The drop site was a queer little place. More an intersection between a few streets that had been extended to form a hub of some kind than anything else. Sometimes Ryl had no idea what the Old People were thinking when they made their cities. What they called this place was even stranger; Time Square. _Absurd,_ he thought, _it held no time and it wasn't even a square._ He was sure Scribe Rikon would have the reason why they called it such an odd name—or at the very least an approximation from what he knew—but it didn't matter. The past was the past. Whatever they called in back then was their business, what it is now is what's important. It was a hive of raider scum.

Preliminary scout ships were sent a few weeks ago, one of them had fallen to enemy fire, the other two had limped back to Liberty Island with their tails between their legs. They had reported near hundreds of the filth, packed and fortified like sardines in the narrow streets and in the ruins. Immediately Elder Hartwood had suggested simply leveling the area, but Head Scribe Kelver thought there might be some documents of historical importance in some of the buildings thereabouts and so Gaunt was called.

Ryl remembered the look on his face when he told the man the news.

Blank. Expressionless. He nodded his head, went about readying his men. He had never felt more nervous in his entire life.

Now they were here.

" _Preparing for drop._ " a harsh voice announced over the comm.

He joined the paladin and his squire at the starboard window, said, " _Angulus diriget gressus tuos._ "

There came no response.

Through a rear facing mirror he watched them come form a line at the docking bay. Already shots were whizzing past the armored balloon or chiming on the metal struts. Gaunt's unit seemed unfazed. With a silent command one by one they walked out into nothingness and fell straight down. The first one crashed into the roof of a building, bursting through it and firing his rifle all the while. The second slammed hard on an old car, a hail of gunfire blasted him as he raised his gatling laser and let loose a torrent of death. Then they all went, crushing shacks and makeshift forts. Explosives strapped to their legs exploding as they landed, killing scores of them.

Ryl counted them, _eleven._ That meant the sentinel was still on the ship. He checked the docking bay, Gaunt was still there, waiting. He was armed with only a long reaverblade and armored in his near impenetrable Xo-1 MK-VI power armor, devoid of sigils or insignia. He held his blade close to his heart when he fell. His impact, and the subsequent explosion, could be heard like a thunderbolt even as high up as _Nuada_ stood. Ryl took a spyglass from a crewman, watched as the sentinel raced the battlefield, hacking and slashing his way to where the leader was said to live. Within minutes his armor was covered in viscera, the broken streets strewn with blood and gore. He glanced at the paladin, who was looking down at the scene with a face full of distance. His squire was quite the opposite. He looked as if he was watching some pre war holofilm, glee and lust clear on his adolescent face. Very disturbing. Suddenly he was wondering who sired that boy.

"He's a beast!" someone said behind the captain.

"More beast than man, aye."

"He's just insane," Ryl said, eyes fixed on the carnage. He and his men were tearing through the lines of raiders as if they were nothing. "It's nothing unusual in wasters." he glanced over at the paladin, no reaction.

"Wow!" the child shouted, pointing. "Look at that." Ryl followed his finger. Up this high it looked like the square was filling up with ants. Hundreds of them, converging on all sides. All points. Trying to pin the squad into a circle.

Ryl rushed to the comm station. "Sentinel! Sentinel! Move your unit out, sentinel! Move them out now!"

No response.

"Goddamn it, Gaunt! Your men are going to die you little son of a bitch! Move them out!"

Silence.

"Fuck!" he shouted. He switched the signal. "All lancers, all lancers, drop team needs assistance! Move out, move out now! Gunships, rain hell on them, goddamnit."

" _Aye aye, captain._ " came the response of a hundred voices at once.

Ryl rushed to the window. They were still coming. He could see bullets ricocheting off power armor, some of them killing their attackers. "Do you have your armor, paladin?"

"Would good would it do?" Costain's voice was calm, horribly calm. "They're already dead. They just don't know it."

"Fuck! Fuck!"

" _Here to bring the pain, captain._ " came the voice of a lancer.

"Strike! Strike dammit! Everything you have!"

" _Killing 'em hard, boss._ "

A flurry of gunfire blared out of the virtibird's main guns. Hoards of them were shredded, torn to bloody pieces. It cut through the ruins with ease, rubble flew everywhere, raining down on those that still lived. Still there were more, then rockets were launched at the gunship. spinning, inaccurate things, true, but they were enough to make the lancer pull out of range. With that they advanced, forgetting the other knights, focusing on Sentinel Gaunt. Ryl couldn't see him anymore, there was too much dust and debris, but he knew that he had made it into the main fortification. He said a silent prayer for the souls of those poor men, and another for hell to come upon the raiders.

A voice, harsh and croaking, came on the comm link. "All fire. All fire, you useless lancer dogs!"

" _Aye aye, sentinel!_ " every lancer responded.

"Wait!" Ryl shouted back. But he was too late. Ten gunships, fully equipped, all rushed into the fray, guns flaring.

" _Cleanse and purge, my brothers!"_ someone shouted on one line, on another there was only laughter.

"Get us out of here!" he ordered.

"Of course, captain."

"Battle frenzy." the paladin said thoughtfully.

"What do I do!" he shrieked at Costain. "What do I do! I've lost control!"

"You can't do anything, Lancer Captain." he said solemnly. "They either come back whole and hale, or they die. Keep the _Nuada_ a good distance away. That's all the help I can give." he turned, walked out of the room, Barnabas close at his heels, leaving Ryl breathless, terrified.

Minutes past. Three. Five. Ten. A great cloud of dust concealed the square from them. He could hear nothing. Not the ring of gunfire, nor the thrum of virtibird wings. Nothing. It was as if the world had come to an anxious hush as the battle raged. The whole crew as on edge. A young woman stood by the window of the command deck, her hands grasping a medallion of the Angle. _Erin,_ he thought her name was. He couldn't be sure. He had tried to look absent, unconcerned for his men, but he couldn't. He had known most of those lancers their whole lives and now they might all be dead. He was racked with fear. With hatred for the raiders and the damn sentinel most of all. Every time he tried to get a comm link on one of them all he heard was shouting and curses. He couldn't take it anymore. He watched with the rest of his crew.

The air was stale in the command deck. No one breathed a word. They were afraid to move. Afraid to think. Some muttered silent prayers, some rocked back and forth in some trance of fear, others cried.

"What was that?" the captain had heard something. He leaned over the window, peered through his spyglass. It looked like there was something rising out of the dust cloud. Beating the particles to a fine spiral as it rose. "Praise Maxson!" he shouted. "Praise Maxson and all His fathers!" one by one they came, every one of them, lifting out of the smoke and haze of battle, triumphant.

" _Captain Ryl!"_ one of them called. " _Scum destroyed! Requesting permission to dock."_

"Permission granted!"

He went out to greet them. The flight deck was cold but he didn't care. He ran to the nearest lancer and, resisting the urge to embrace him, he slapped him on the shoulder. The lancer hugged him. He didn't stop it.

Heavy footsteps sounded ahead of him. He looked and saw Sentinel Gaunt staring down at him. His armor was rent; his pauldrons had been blown off, holes lined all the softer areas of the ceramic-steel plating and his helmet was a twisted mess in his hands. He said nothing. Pushed past the captain.

"Where are your men, sentinel?" he asked. He was the only one he had seen.

"Dead." he spat back.

Ryl looked at the lancer. "All dead." he agreed. "He didn't even let us get their holotags. Said they weren't worth it. How will the Scrolls remember them?"

"They won't." he answered. "And I don't think he cares." a chill ran down his spine as he watched the man walk away. _He's empty._ Costain had said. _Empty of everything._


	3. The Sound of the Furies part 1

**The Sound of the Furies**

 _In dubio, et scient quia ego Dominus._

Darkness. All he could see was darkness.

It was a retching, reaching demon, stretching it's gnarled and clawed hands towards his heart with a hunger, a will that was not human. He felt it wrapping itself around him. He didn't know what he could do, how he could fight it off. Steel had failed him, the darkness gave no care for it's strength. His weapons had failed him, laser and bullet were one and the same to the darkness. His own body had failed him, it was vessel for the darkness. Each breath he took he let it in; each thought he made more of it's insipid thirst infused itself into his very being. His bones were darkening, his muscles were waning, turning cold and dead within him. His blood froze in his veins when the darkness touched them, he could feel his body dying. Then it found his heart, still beating, still pumping hard and fast and strong—it was all it knew, all it could do. That was enough for the darkness. It reached an inky tendril gently towards it, quivering with anticipation, its vile sickness spread as it made its inching way towards death. A gentle touch, an agonizing pain.

He awoke chocking off a scream.

He was alone in his chambers. It was dark and cold from the predawn chill. He flipped on a light, was greeted by his power armor looming over him. Its hunched, empty figure The eyes seemed to be staring at him. He threw the blanket over it.

His body felt weak as he made his slow way towards the water basin. Cracks and pops heralding each movement of his joints. He splashed water on his face. Drank. His throat was dry and burning. Outside a bird was taking off, slashing the air with its blades and stirring the world into motion. He had become accustomed to the sound—he heard it most every night and all day. _The Brotherhood never sleeps. Only rests._ Someone had told him that once, he could no longer say who. On his night stand there was a stack of battle reports and assignments. He took them up, sat back down on his bed and read through them.

They were all much the same as always. Squads pushing in from the east and west had encountered raider resistance, Gunners and other such nuisances. There was a purge headed by Paladin Hortense going on somewhere nearer the Jersey Coast. And of course there was the request.

It came each week almost without fail to every paladin in the order. It was a simple thing, a letter wrapped in protective leather with the seal of the holy sword. He read it, as he always did. It was the same, nearly to the letter.

 _Most honored Paladin,_ it read in a flowing script that he knew must have been a scribe's. _It has been thirty nine years since Knight Caladan and his noble retinue first made their journey into the wastes in search for the son of the Angel Arthur Maxson, blessed be His name. As of yet there has been little sign of the Lost Son, save rumors and here say by the locals. We are low on spirits and low on supplies. The voyage across the blasted lands has taken its toll on our men. Knight Caladan wishes resupply and aide from you, his noble brothers and sisters. He calls for this in the name of Arthur and all His fathers._

It was signed Knight Commander Caladan of the Citadel. He balled it up, threw it in a corner.

"Why did you do that?" a voice inside him asked.

"Because there's no point." he told it, and went back to reading.

He had long forgotten the search for the Lost Son. After thirty years Hugh was either dead or wanted nothing to do with the Brotherhood. Caladan doesn't think so, apparently.

"What do you think, Costain?" the voice nagged.

He shook his head.

Battle reports, casualties and death tolls on both sides flew by his eyes faster than he could read them. It didn't seem to matter. He put them back on the night stand, started to clean his weaponry. Sleep wasn't going to come back to him, he knew that, so he might as well ready himself.

Already he could hear the canticle rising up out of the old statue. He wondered who was singing. It was low and tired, as if to echo the slow coming of the sun. _Benedictus Maxson, quem ostendit viam ferro._ He heard it, almost uttered it himself.

"Do you like my song, Costain?"

"Shut up."

"I think it's rather nice. If only it wasn't about me. I could actually enjoy it. Are you listening Costain? Look at me when I'm speaking to you!"

Suddenly he was back at the Airport, his drill master barking orders at him in his gruff, tortured voice. "You will look at me when I'm talking to you, soldier!" he shrieked.

"Yes, commander!"

The smack came as a shock, even though he was expecting it. A servo augmented prosthetic hand whacked him across the face and he lost his feet. Coughing and writhing in the dirt, the drill master leaned an inch from his face. His terrible breath overwhelming him. "You pitiful sack of shit! I want nothing to do with you waster piece of crap! You are nothing to me, do you understand that?" he kicked him hard in the stomach. "Do you?"

"Yes, sir." he said between coughs. His fellow trainees trying not to watch. Hoping they weren't next.

"You're all scum to me! Everyone of you! Fuck! Why did they give me green waster idiots when I asked for brothers of steel! None of you are worthy of the honor of knight, most of you will be lancers—and I pity the men that have to fly in that damn virtibird!" he spat a bloody of gobbet of phlegm in Costain's face. "Get up, swine."

He struggled to his feet, a steady line of blood trickling out of his mouth. He saluted his commander. "Thank you, sir." blood spat out of him with each word. But he was smiling.

The next six months was a terrible gauntlet of torture. Standard knight training might last more than two years, in that time a group of sixty or eighty trainees might become less then ten or eight. In Costain's there was only four. Most went to lancer training aboard the _Prydwen,_ others were sent out with broken legs or on left on their own power. The four that remained were either the best or most determined. He could remember no names, but the face of each of them was forever etched onto the fabric of his mind. They were his closest friends, his bitterest of rivals, the greatest thing that ever happened to him.

Though his body was bruised and broken each day, and at times he felt that his heart was going to explode in his chest, he saw the honor, the duty that he was going to fulfil—what he _was_ fulfilling with each bloody nose and broken bone. He loved every minute of it. It wasn't till he had learned everything the master could teach him, had set to muscle and instinct the feel of blade and rifle, the love and warmth that battle brought in his soul, was he allowed to wear his armor.

It was a dark day, cold and wet in a light radioactive rain. Winter was slowly making its dark, looming approach over the Glowing Sea, bringing with it the hell storms he had know all his life. The drill master came in his finest. He looked a mountain as he made his slow way into the training yard, his helmet in his hands, a rifle in the other. Behind a group of knights were wheeling out four tall, cloaked figure. He met his meager group with a spit, said, "It has come to this. After months of whipping you waster scum into something resembling a brother and now I have to do this. Know that the only reason you're even going to _see_ these suits is because the elder say's it's time and his word is law. So, saw hello to your power armor."

The knights flew off the sheets, revealing great armored suits, freshly oiled and cleaned. Behind him some of the older knights were laughing at the drill master's dramatics but Costain saw nothing strange in it. He walked towards it, reached out to touch it. The drill master smacked him with the slightest of taps against his check and it took all his strength not to fall to his feet. He spat blood.

"Not yet, you heathen dog!" the master shrieked. "You've yet to earn that, boy."

"You remember that day, don't you, soldier?" Arthur's voice was a brightness in the stillness of the predawn. Costain did all he could to ignore it.

The elder's ghost sat on a bench near the paladin's armor, leaning on his knees and watching his soldier with clear, cold eyes. "Do you fear me, Costain? Is there some reason that 'the Angel' makes you feel shame? Don't ignore me, paladin."

"You're not here." he told himself, not looking back. "You're dead. Been dead for thirty years."

"But gods never die, brother. Or have you forgotten who those people sing to day and night. Whose name knight after knight, brother after brother has held on his lips as he rushed into certain death. In whose name not one but three wars are being waged. Whose son is lost."

"No. This is madness. I'm going mad..."

Arthur laughed, walked to Costain's old armor. He rubbed a dark hand over the scars and patches that covered its body. The steel, though it was old and the paint was old and malfunctioning, it was still strong and powerful. The filtration system was at least three generations obsolete by now, the servos were stiff and strange, the strength augmenters, the sensorium and HUD set into the joints and helm were bound to failing—mostly when he needed them the most. "This suit is unacceptable, soldier. Look at it! You haven't been doing your duty in upkeep here, Costain. Why is that?"

"No reason. It works as it needs to. No more, no less." _you should know that, since this is just a hallucination._

"I am not a hallucination." Arthur said with all honesty. The shade was at least convinced of his own being. More so than Costain seemed at that point. "Tell me, are you afraid of the new suits? Do their new technologies scare you? Or is it what they represent that frightens you, paladin?"

"Not at all. There's just no point in changing it. That's it. Now go away."

"You can't get rid of me that easily."

Costain threw a rag behind him. When he looked back he was alone, and someone was knocking on his door. "Paladin! Paladin!" the caller shouted at him, banging loud as he could.

 _Barnabas._ He knew that little voice better than any other. Raising, he tried to ignore the intense pops and cracks that rang out from his joints as he opened the door. Barnabas was sweating in his dirty, wrinkled uniform, panting as he knelt and held up a sealed scroll. "Orders from the elder, Paladin."

Costain sighed at the ceremony. Took the scroll from his young squire's hand, "On your feet, son. And go eat something, you look famished."

Barnabas looked concerned. "Sir?"

"I said go! That's an order, squire!"

"Yes sir, Paladin Sir." he saluted him, hurried off to the cafeteria. He kept looking back at his master, worry in his eyes.

 _He's smarter than I give him credit for._ He sat down at his desk, read the scroll. It was written in the Elder's own hand, an order of summons aboard the _Prydwen._ He sighed again, glanced at his armor for a moment, then went to throw on his robes.

The old airship was moored at the head of the ancient colossus, overlooking all of the island with benevolent eye. Since the fall of _Camelot_ the day Arthur made his ascent to heaven, the _Prydwen_ taken its accustomed place as the seat of the chapter's power. Now though the war vessel was covered in new insignia and prayers etched into each strut and wall that someone could get their hands on. The command center was a great mosaic of paintings, drawings, and images of Steel and the Angel who had ordered the great craft to be made. It was now a beautiful cathedral of the sky as well as the fortress it had been.

"Paladin, welcome." Elder Harwood sat at a desk in the center of the command deck, a desk lamp illuminated a heap of scattered papers—reports and requests from three whole legions all at once. Costain couldn't handle that much paperwork, and, apparently, neither could the Elder. He was sallow man, bent and slumped of shoulder, his hair was falling off with each day and in its wake came wrinkles and withered skin. His formal robes, greyed by age, hung off his body as if they were meant for a larger man. It was hard to believe that he was once a star-paladin, and a good one at that.

He saluted his lord. "Elder Harwood. Steel be with you, always."

"And with you." he didn't look at the paladin as spoke. He waved a weak hand at him. "Sit. Sit. Please." Costain moved a chair from a corner and sat facing his elder. "Do you know why I've called you here?"

"I Don't, Elder."

He glanced at him, straining his eyes to make out the paladin's figure. Costain was still a strong man, though he was almost of an age with the elder. Obviously that made him uncomfortable. "Call me John, please." he sighed a weak sigh, rolled his shoulders and called on the intercom for a drink. A team of squires came in a second later with a tray of Old World wine and a few bits of roasted brahmin meat. John Harwood had with zeal, Costain sipped at his wine, wondering who had made it so long ago. "Did you know," the elder said through a mouthful of meat and wine, "That Quenlyn has been pestering me about using an anti-FEV in subway tunnels?"

The paladin was surprised, but not shocked. Head Scribe Quentyn had taken a deep interest in the work of the preeminent Dr Virgil. And though he could see why—the results of the first anti-FEV bombs in the ruins of boston and near the Glowing Sea were a tremendous success, beyond anything they'd expected—he found the scribe's interest...disturbing. Though he wasn't sure why. Was not the Forced Evolutionary Virus the one thing that drove great Roger Maxson, the founder of the Brotherhood, to abandon his former masters and live on into the ages? Was not the eradication of that virus and its spawn a holy thing then? Perhaps it was a personnel thing. What the anti-FEV could do in three seconds would have taken him months or even years of none stop combat to accomplish. Whatever it was, in his heart he knew the device to be wrong.

"Have you called me here to discuss the bomb?" he asked.

The Elder Looked askance at him, "Perhaps I have. Perhaps the bomb has weighed heavily on my shoulder of late. Perhaps the idea of eradicating whole hoards of mutants in a matter of seconds quite appeals to me. What would you say to that, Paladin?"

"I would say that your choice is your own. And no matter the choice—"

"It shall be your command. I know. Trust me, brother, I know." with an effort he raised himself onto his feet, staggered over to a window, looked out at the training yard. "They're so young." he said, as if to himself. To Costain he said, "Did you know that almost half of those fighting in the underground are Iron Legionaries? Militiamen one and all. I think only a few squads of knights patrol alongside them. Did you know that?"

"I had seen some reports on the matter, yes sir."

"And do you know what happens to those not clad in the shining armor of the brotherhood when the bomb breaks its seals? Do you know?"

"I do." he had seen the aftermath of the First Testing, knowing by the residents of the Commonwealth as the Scouring of Boston. People more than thirty miles around the blast sight were also struck dead, their veins bursting into radioactive fire as the virus was purged from their bodies. Internal hemorrhaging, sudden heart attacks and even an expansion of the cerebral cortex, causing the brain to bulge and even burst out of the skull. Yes, he had seen what happens when a waster was hit by the bomb. He could never un-see it. "If a bomb were to detonate in the tunnels hundreds if not thousands of Legiones Ferrum would be dead or wishing for death within seconds." he said. And I didn't think the militias would be very pleased hearing that the only survivors were a handful of brotherhood knights."

"Exactly." Harwood said, draining his glass. "The problem is—"

"The problem, Elder," the paladin interrupted. "Is that if we clear the underground of ghouls and molerats and whatever else slithers in the depths, the mutants would stop ambushing our squadrons as we push further into the city. But, if the lack of ventilation in the tunnels cannot let out the stink of serum then the subways might be closed off to us forever, leaving much of the city out of our reach."

The Elder said nothing, ordered another drink. For a long time there was silence. Then the Elder sighed again, rose and paced the room. He held his hands behind his back. Though he had a goodly amount of respect for Harwood, Costain could only think that the old man was trying to act like Arthur. _He wants to be him, perhaps. I pity him that._ Stopping before his paladin, the Elder spoke with a clear, flat voice, the voice one would speak to a dying man on his death pallet. "Then there's no other way. Brother Costain, your Elder bids you kneel."

"With honor, Elder Harwood." he rose, stood before him and knelt low at his feet.

Harwood placed a hand on his head, took a moment, said, "I, Elder Jonathon Harwood, by the grace of the Angel and all his fathers I bear the bourdon of three legions upon my shoulders. As I was given this honor from the hands of Arthur Maxson, so I give to you, Robert Costain, the soul command of the first legion and all men therein. Do you accept?"

"Yes, Elder."

"Then rise, High-Paladin Costain."

He rose, looked at his master. He slapped his hands on his shoulders, embraced him, said, "I order you to purge those tunnels for the Brotherhood. For humanity. You have as long as you need, as many men as you need. _Vade cum deo, frater._ "

Costain said nothing. He stared at the image of a dead man, and he stared back with sullen eyes. _God sends me to the darkness. And to the darkness I shall come._


	4. The Sound of the Furies Part 2

His legion was dust and salt.

He met them a week out from the island, a crumbling band of militia in the rain, far from home and chilled to the bone. They had settled up camp near the mouth of maw reaching into the depths, a weary sentry set up by its entrance while their mates were huddled round campfires. Thick looming shadows concealed the whole host, making them seem a black mass among the rubble, undefined, uncountable. Though Costain knew there were hundreds of them. They wore a motley of different uniforms, plainclothes or patched and armored dusters slung with bandoliers and gunbelts. Grave faces, somber, pallid and dark; short hair, long hair, feral manes and close kept ponytails; men from half a hundred different places, the only thing connecting them the number one stitched on their shoulders and breasts.

Three generals met him on the landing site. They saluted with respect as the high-paladin and his squadron stepped out of the virtibird. A tall man in a blue and white trimmed revolutionary tailcoat, his hair newly washed and pulled behind his head, said, "Welcome to the deathtrap, High-Paladin Costain. My name is Colonel Michael Jones, 1st Sanctuary regiment."

"Well met, sir." the paladin greeted him.

Another man, a tanned beast of a thing wearing a suit of yellow boiled leather armor decorated with swirls and lines in geometric forms. A large, weeping tumor growing out of what used to be his left eye twitched whenever he moved. He held it with a cloth as he made a curt bow but said nothing.

"This is Mal Horrigan" Colonel Jones explained, "He doesn't speak much English, tribals and all, but you can't find a more loyal man in the legion. And finally—"

"Finally you're here and we've work to do." the last general croaked. He was a squat, high shouldered ghoul whose flesh had almost all fallen off his bones, leaving a strange skeletal monster where once there had been a man. He wore an ancient set of fatigues, faded patches and rusted badges showed on its breast along with the newer ones of the legions. The paladin resisted an urge to fire on the general. _Too much time among ferals._ He tried to remind himself. But he kept a hand on his sidearm all the same.

Colonel Jones looked at the man with shock, but he was already making his way towards camp. Costain and his knights followed close behind.

The knights towered over the men. Heads turned from cookfires, conversations were hushed into silence as the thunder of steel broke the calm of night. Costain surveyed his men, some forming up and saluting, others staying at their fires, their eyes attentive and wearily waiting. _They're dreading what is to come._ the paladin observed. _That's good. It will keep them alive._ The farther along they went the tighter the tents and shacks crept together, till at the command tent they formed a fortress of canvas and hide.

The place was alive, reeking with the stink of humanity. Anywhere you turned there were local traders in thrown together stalls; whores in tattered rags or nothing at all wandered the paths between tents as dogs ran barking loudly underfoot. The soldiers milled about, sharpening blades, swilling drinks and swapping stories. Some of them fired off rounds at the ruins or bullet strewn targets though most huddled about one another, shivering and trying to keep dry. There was a river of black filth slithering ever downwards. Shit and piss, disease and the fluids of decaying corpses The three commanders save only the ghoul, held their noses tight and hurried on ahead. Costain thanked god for his helmet.

Ahead the lonely sentinels stood, accompanied now by five stern men and one woman Costain took for the other commanders. They all saluted or bowed when they saw him, though their focus was on the chasm before them. The paladin bent to examine it, a deep fissure in the earth a hundred miles wide, swallowing crumbling ruins and all the street with it. Steel beams and towering shards of concrete jutted out of it on all sides. Rain fell down it dully and almost silently, as if the darkness stretched on forever. Suddenly he felt claws reaching at his soul, and stepped aside.

They were all introduced and they were all greeted. There was Markus Lear, the Trip Twins, Tom and Alice, in their scrap armor; Logan McNeil in his worn greatcoat, Horrigan's brother, Frak the Goodkiller stood, his myriad braids drenched and thick at his back; then there was Erica Thorne.

She was a tall, well built young woman in a weathered black leather duster patched and armored in battered old kevlar at the shoulders and chest. She had a curt smile and catlike eyes that seemed strange set in that angular, hard face and military cut black hair. At her side dangled a sawed off shotgun, the shells lining her belt slick and gleaming in the light from the camp. "Thought you'd never get here." she said, regarding him and his men. "That it?"

Costain looked behind him. "Twenty brothers not enough?"

"More than that died in the first week." the ghoul said.

"Tin-men know death," Frak Goodkiller laughed. "Want death. Better to show them where to find it than have them go looking, eh?" he pointed to the chasm and laughed again. The paladin eyed him warily.

"Don't listen to that savage, my lord." Markus Lear said disdainfully. He was a short man with a slight hair lip and the tortured voice of a heavy smoker. He rested an arm over the shotgun slung over his shoulders. Spat. "The beast's men are good against the muties but there's little brains in them. Or respect."

"What's the situation?" he asked. Ignoring this exchange. He was eager to get to business. The generals grumbled amongst themselves and started to walk closer to the chasm.

"What do you know?" Erica asked.

"I understand there is an unusually large number of ferals in the subway tunnels and sewers. I know we've lost a lot of men and haven't been past a few meters deep. I know you've called for reinforcements twice in the two months you've been here and I know you never received them."

"Until now, right?" Logan McNeil said with a grunt.

"That's right."

The chasm dipped lower and lower into the bowels of the old city. Suddenly they were in the blasted remains of a subway station. Soldiers had taken up positions at the ticket stations, made a beracade out of benches, bathroom stall doors and here and there sandbags. A paltry few electric lights, those either salvaged from the station or somewhere else, glowed dully in the gloom though for the most part the flickering light of torches and fires was the only thing that cut through the darkness.

"Well there's the demons," Erica smiled as she said the word but there was something in her eyes that said she wasn't joking.

"Demons?"

"Aye, demons. Massive things that hide in the shadows and strike when a man isn't paying attention. Or charge in the shadows of the ferals, though they don't see them, then they rip men apart," Markus' eyes were wide, he reached for a cigarette as he told it; "Limb from limb. Shouting and laughing all the while. I saw one once. Glimpsed him in between gunfire in darkness. He was a large hulking thing, fucking abomination leapt at one of my men and tore him to shreds." he threw the rest of his cigarette, lit another.

 _Monsters in the shadows,_ Costain thought. Something about that seemed familiar but he couldn't quite place it.

"Besides these 'demons' there's also the deathclaws." the ghoul said.

"Yes...the deathclaws." Jones agreed uneasily.

"Frak like deathclaw. Test worth, eh brother?" Goodkiller elbowed his brother who let out a pained laugh.

"How in the hell are there deathclaws down here?" one knight asked another.

"They're not _really_ deathclaws. At least they don't look like deathclaws. Fuckin' act like it, though." the ghoul said.

"Most of the lizards live deeper into the sewers. We tend to keep away from them." Said Erica Thorne.

One of the sentries followed them deeper into the darkness, a makeshift lantern held high in his hand. The headlights from the knights' helmets shone brightly in the gloom and the echoing sound of their feet was like thunder. All around them they heard the creaking of steel, the crumbling of stone. The shadows felt alive; twisting and breaking apart as the flickering light washed over it, only to fill back again. The generals were calm but the sentry was terrified. Costain fought back nervousness as he walked. Soon they came to the station proper. A cramped line of ticket stands, turnstiles and two still trains that was filled with soldiers.

Somehow they had restored electricity down here, the brightness of ancient light bulbs flooded the chamber, revealing tents and bedrolls scattered everywhere from the tracks to the benches. Here and there soldiers milled about, waiting for orders, sitting by cookfires or tending to their weapons. Lazily, they formed a line when they saw the knights approaching. The generals looked over them, shouting and setting them to work. The knights went about securing the area and Costain wondered the station.

Briefly looking over the soldiers he saw nothing but weary faces and bone thin frames. Like all the other men he'd seen these were tired, angry and homesick men that wanted nothing to with this place. Many of them were afraid, after so long he knew what fear looked like; but as the knights moved about them, he noticed a glimmer of dim hope lighting of their faces, and he was hopeful himself.

The station was well taken care of. The train that was forever waiting in at the platform had been striped to its bones for fortifications and part of the reenforced ceiling had fallen into itself but for the most part it was exemplary work from the restoration teams.

"You're going to die," the voice was a croaking chortle behind him. Costain turned and found the ghoul staring back at him. His ruined face turned to a grimace, and that throaty chuckled echoed down the station.

"You don't believe in my ability to lead?"

"I don't believe it'll matter." He said simply.

"What's your name?" The paladin asked.

Another chuckle."Live through the night and I'll tell you." He walked off down the over darkening tunnel till he was a shadow in a sea of shadow.

6


End file.
